"I find another way to get to Yeltsin. I'll have names and evidence to shove in his face. If they can do this to me, Elena, they can do it to anybody. I'm sure they will. And if that happens, the damage will be immeasurable. Nobody will want to put money in Russia." She was dressed in a long tight dress with a slit that stretched all the way to her waist; it clawed even more provocatively higher when she moved. The dress was not expensive and didn't need to be; she could justify drools in kitchen rags. She entered the restaurant and wound her way through the tables, where her date for the evening awaited impatiently in a long cushioned booth in the back.
Golitsin had arrived ten minutes earlier. He was deep into his third scotch, a fine, imported blend he had acquired a taste for during his years in the KGB.
The restaurant was the most exclusive and most breathtakingly expensive in Moscow. At that moment, anyway: city hot spots fluctuated monthly, and after three weeks of endless lines, of thousand-dollar bribes to the owner for a reserved table, this place was peering at oblivion. The tables were filled with other crooks and entrepreneurs who were choking down caviar by the bushel and gulping enough champagne to float the Russian fleet. Enough cigarette smoke filled the air for an artillery duel. Beautiful women seemed to be littered around every table, hanging lustily on the arms of seriously rich men, laughing at full volume over the slightest ping of humor, generally working hard to ingratiate themselves enough to let the party last another day, another week, another month, before they were replaced by a more eager bimbo with longer legs and a louder, faster quick-draw giggle.
Long live capitalism.
"Nice place. You have good taste," Tatyana said, smiling nicely, not meaning a word of it.
Golitsin did not get up or even acknowledge the phony compliment. She slid into the booth across from him and offered a nice flash of thigh. Her blue blouse was cut precariously low-if she tripped, or stooped even one inch forward, her breasts would flop out.
"How are things in the Kremlin?" Golitsin asked.
"Tense. Always tense. Disaster always lurking around the corner."
The waiter rushed over. She ordered British gin, straight up, no water, no ice. Golitsin tipped his nearly empty glass and signaled for a refill. A small band sat in the corner, dressed as Cossacks, playing old Russian folk songs to an audience playing a new Russian game.
Golitsin informed her, "Let me tell you why we're here. I'm hearing rumors."
"What kind of rumors?"
"Bad ones for the lush."
"How bad?"
"The reactionary forces are going to take him down."
"They've been promising that for years."
"They're beyond promising. They're hiring hooligans off the streets, arming them, and preparing a showdown."
An eyebrow shot up. "How reliable are these rumors?"
"Believe them. My old KGB friends say it will happen any day."
"What about Rutskoi? He involved?" she asked in a low whisper, meaning, of course, Aleksandr Rutskoi, Yeltsin's vice president, a war hero from the Afghanistan debacle Yeltsin had taken aboard in the hope that Rutskoi could calm down the right-wing wackos and former communists who loathed Yeltsin with a passion that bordered on madness. But the marriage was ill-conceived and soured from the start. It sped bitterly downhill from there. They were very different kind of men: one malleable and political down to his underwear; the other the sort of military man who adored absolutes in everything but his own ethics. Aside from a few organs the only thing they shared in common was that they were both legendary blowhards with a bottomless lust for power. The two men now barely talked. Rutskoi schemed and plotted with his friends and allies in the Russian version of a Congress, undermining Yeltsin and his reforms at every turn. And Yeltsin worked hard to return the favor. Stealing a note from his American friends, he pushed his vice president into the shadows, and shoved him out the door every time there was a funeral anywhere in the world. "The Pallbearer," Yeltsin called him with considerable malice.
"In it up to his hips," Golitsin confirmed, finishing off his scotch.
Her gin arrived. She took a long, careful sip. "I know you hate him, but it would be bad luck for us and our plans if Yeltsin was toppled right now."
Barely paying attention, he now was looking over her shoulder at a man who had just swaggered through the entrance. Six leggy women of identical height and approximate weight and anorexic build were hanging off his arms, all with their hair died bright red, all dressed in identical red evening gowns. He thought at first he was seeing double, or triple, and it was time to cut back on the hooch. What a glorious time to be ridiculously rich and Russian.
"Maybe there's an opportunity in this for us," she suggested.
That got his attention. He shifted his rear and bent forward. "Like what?"
"Your old KGB friends now run the Ministry of Security and the security services. If there's bloodshed, they'll be Yeltsin's only hope."
"Yes, they will. What do we get in return?"
She was about to throw out an unconsidered answer when what had been a loud argument at the next table turned dangerously louder. Two millionaires were enjoying a heated argument over a business deal gone sour, both in full throttle about who had outcheated whom. One leaped from his chair and drew a gun. The two lovely blonde bimbos who were their evening entertainment screeched and hit the floor. The gunman was red-faced and howling curses, aiming the pistol in the face of the man across from him. It was such an everyday mess in Moscow business circles that the other patrons mostly ignored the fracas. They went about their meals, the girls laughed, the champagne flowed. Fortunately, like nearly every business in this raucous, crooked town, the restaurant had a protection contract with a crime syndicate. Two burly men hustled over, blackjacked the gun wielder into unconsciousness, kicked and pummeled him a few times out of habit, and dragged him out by the legs. Tatyana exploited the brief entertainment to ponder Golitsin's question more deeply.
The moment things settled down, she suggested, "How about this? In return we name the new attorney general."
It was a brilliant idea, of course. Golitsin saw the possibilities immediately. If they owned the attorney general, any potential Alex problems would go away. Nor, as they gobbled up other companies, would they have to look over their shoulders; they wouldn't worry about the legal authorities because they owned the head honcho. He bent farther forward and asked, "You think Yeltsin will bite?"
"If we time it just right, what choice will he have?"
He folded his hands behind his head and leaned back into his seat. "Wait till the blood is running, till the standoff reaches full pitch. Till he's absolutely desperate and has no choice. Great idea."
"Exactly. Can you deliver the Ministry of Security?"
He chuckled. Stupid question. "I'll appeal to their patriotism and I'll spread money around like there's no tomorrow. They may have demands of their own. I'll tell them to make a list."
The waiter arrived. It was nearly midnight, so they both went for the special, boar au gratin, which materialized almost instantly. Large slabs of it, buried under a ton of gooey white cheese and thick gravy. She drank measured sips of champagne with her meal, he stuck with scotch and drank without letup. She nibbled carefully and economically from the feast on her plate, he stuffed everything into his mouth and chewed with noisy vigor.
She stayed on small talk, but had another topic to discuss. A delicate one, and she wanted his stomach full and his incredible intelligence watered down with liquor before she made her move.
After desserts were delivered, she asked, "How do you like your new house?"
"It's wonderful." He tried to keep the nasty smile off his face, but couldn't help it. "I love sleeping in Konevitch's bed, knowing I took it from him. I hope he and his lovely brat are sleeping on a hard, bug-ridden bunk in a flophouse, surrounded by smelly winos and hacking dopers, and thinking about me."